


Vision

by equestrianstatue



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: “And if there is ever— ” Grant swallowed and seemed to reconsider his wording. His demeanour was unusual, not forthright, not certain, not easy, not any of the things Strange was used to in him. “I mean to say that if there is any way I can be of use, if there is any thing I can do to alleviate your loneliness, I hope that you might ask me for it.”Strange only just stopt himself from gaping at Grant outright, and thus retained the possibility of pretending that he did not recognize this proposition for what it was.





	Vision

In Madrid Strange thought fleetingly of visiting a brothel. This was because a number of officers he knew were doing exactly this and asked him if he wished to join them. He did not, and after a moment's pause, said so: but the moment's pause rather unbalanced him, and after the officers had left he had the unpleasant sensation of not wishing to be inside his own skin. He felt dirty and restless and unhappy. He had declined the offer in part because he did not wish to betray Arabella, but in part (and, he thought, in greater part) because he had not been to a brothel before. This was not due to any particular moralizing in his youth, but because it had never seemed to him a pleasurable idea to spend a night with any one who would not enjoy themselves as much as he would, and he had never had much trouble finding somebody to fit this office. 

His body was worn and exhausted but still brittle with need. It had been more than a year now since he had sailed to Portugal, and sometimes he wondered if he had forgotten quite what it was that he wanted. It was rare that he slept privately. Whenever he did he took himself in hand and thought of the last night he had spent with Arabella, but the memory was hollow with distance, and when he finished he felt a little sick and very desperately lonely. All the same it stilled the twitching of his limbs and lulled him into a fitful sleep.

Madrid being more or less intact, Strange was actually staying in a hotel, which seemed very odd to him at first but was the practice among those who could afford it. After he had declined to accompany the other officers, he went back to his room there, but soon found he could not stand the sight of the four yellowing walls or of his face in the mirror, and so he went downstairs. In the restaurant he discovered Grant and Dawlish drinking port, who invited him to join them. This he agreed to readily. But before long he found he did not have the appetite for it he had expected. It seemed tonight he did not want any thing: it was as if he could no longer understand how empty he had become and so had stopt wishing to fill the void that was within him.

He thought that both Grant and Dawlish sensed that all was not well with him, although nothing was said about it. At one time or another every soldier that Strange knew had seemed melancholy or distracted and could not be made merry by any thing, so presumably they thought little of it. When after an hour or so he excused himself and returned to his room, both men wished him a pleasant good night.

Strange struggled to find any sort of comfort in his bed, even though he ought to be immensely grateful for it after weeks sleeping in a tent in the rough surrounding country. Turning from side to side he thought of the officers who had gone to the brothel that evening and of what they might be doing even at this very moment. His body responded faintly with desire; he thought then of what he himself might have been doing at this very moment had he gone with them. He imagined the feeling of lace against his fingers, of a girl in his lap, opening her legs for him, or perhaps— she would suck him, he would have asked for that, he thought.

When he put his hand between his legs his prick twitched hopefully, but he could not summon up the enthusiasm to see the thing through. The imaginary picture would not remain clear, and besides it would not sate him. It was quite impersonal and unreal. Since his mind was on carnal matters his thoughts turned instead to Arabella, but this only made him feel cold and guilty at what he had imagined a moment before, and quelled what little arousal was in him. Well. Good. He would go to sleep.

He lay on his back with his eyes shut and let a slight headach creep into his temples. It was odd that in the luxury of the hotel he should find it so difficult to sleep when it came so easily in much more uncomfortable places. The headach was like a quiet knocking against the inside of his skull. Then the knocking got a little louder and he realised that it was in fact outside of his head. Someone was knocking gently at his door. 

For a moment Strange did not think he would open it, since it could not be very urgent, or whoever it was would be trying much harder to rouse him. But his curiosity got the better of him and he got out of bed and went to see who was there. It was Grant, wearing his full uniform still and a small frown of concern. 

“I am sorry,” he said, at the sight of Strange in his shirtsleeves, although he did not seem much perturbed by it. “I did not know whether you had gone to bed. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Do not worry. I am in fact finding the bed a surprizing impediment to sleep. Come in.” Strange stepped back so that Grant could do so. “Is every thing well? Can I help you?”

Grant did not answer him immediately, despite the fact that Strange thought this rather a simple question. He had closed the door softly behind him. He cleared his throat and then paused a moment longer. “I have come to ask you much the same thing.”

Strange did not know what Grant meant. Perhaps he had forgotten something they had been talking about with Dawlish earlier; he had not been paying enough attention. His lack of understanding must have shewn on his face because after a moment Grant carried on.

“This evening, you seemed very… I do not know. I thought you did not seem normal.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Strange. “I am only very tired.”

Grant nodded slowly, understandingly, although Strange was for some reason quite certain that Grant did not believe him— or at least did not believe he was being told every thing. For a moment he thought that Grant would bid him good night again and leave, and for a moment it seemed that Grant thought he would do this too. But then Grant said, “I know that it can be a very lonely life here, although one is surrounded at all times by so many people.”

This was so surprizing a distillation of Strange's own thoughts that he must have betrayed it in his expression. Perhaps this in turn encouraged Grant to continue.

“I suppose the loneliness is all the more acute for the companionship you are used to at home. I have never been married, Mr Strange, so I cannot say I know what it is to be parted all of a sudden from one's wife. But I think I understand something of what you are feeling.”

“Yes,” Strange agreed, and it seemed to his ears that he was speaking quite normally, although he felt that the conversation was taking a turn he had not at all foreseen. “I am sure that you do.”

“And if there is ever— ” Grant swallowed and seemed to reconsider his wording. His demeanour was unusual, not forthright, not certain, not easy, not any of the things Strange was used to in him. “I mean to say that if there is any way I can be of use, if there is any thing I can do to alleviate that loneliness, I hope that you might ask me for it.”

Strange only just stopt himself from gaping at Grant outright, and thus retained the possibility of pretending that he did not recognize this proposition for what it was. In point of fact it was one that he was sorely tempted by. It would not be true to say that Strange had never looked at Grant when he was busy engaged in some other task— giving orders with customary brusqueness and clarity, studying a map in Wellington's tent with a very serious focus, smiling a little lopsidedly over his wine glass at dinner— and idly considered something like this. Grant was, after all, quite handsome, and he was besides frank in manner and very competent in every thing he did, all qualities which Strange admired. But it had certainly never occurred to him that Grant might make a proposal of this kind.

Nonetheless, and despite the way that his body tensed a little at the thought of what Grant might be suggesting, of what he might be willing to do— Strange did not think that this was something that he wanted. Well, it was, of course, quite desperately so. But he could not reconcile himself to the circumstance in which it was offered: in friendship, in understanding. He could imagine exactly the practical way in which he and Grant might service each other, exactly their polite leave-taking afterwards, and exactly the redoubled emptiness of his bed and the redoubled ache of his memories of Arabella. No: it would not be worth it. And besides he registered that Grant must have come to him partly in pity. His pride could not quite stomach the idea.

Grant's face was expectant but otherwise impassive. He was waiting for an answer, but was calm and patient, as if all of this were nothing at all to worry about. After a moment's deliberation Strange thought it only fair to give him the dignity of shewing that he had understood what they were discussing. 

“Thank you,” he said. “That is really very kind of you. But I do not think I require any such thing.”

Grant nodded again, and just at first the set of his mouth was not quite— well. Strange was sure he must have imagined it. The expression on his face had been there only for the briefest of moments. He was disappointed, Strange realised, a little surprized by it: but then of course this proposition would no doubt be agreeable to Grant too. But it had been more than that. 

It would have been the easiest thing in the world for neither of them to say any thing more on the matter. But there was something that Strange could not let alone, an idea he would not have considered, only the way that Grant had _looked_ at him—

“Unless this is something that you would like,” Strange said, carefully.

This time he was paying attention. Grant looked at first surprized, and then a sort of yearning seemed to flicker across his face. In moments he had composed himself. But it had been quite enough for Strange to see that Grant wanted him.

This was so shocking a notion that Strange was quite arrested by it. He experienced immediately a warmth prickling his skin and a knot of desire in the pit of his stomach that of which he had not felt the like since leaving England. He breathed in sharply, and did not do any thing particularly to conceal his reaction; it seemed that Grant saw it, because the hungry expression came back onto his face and this time it stayed there.

This changed matters entirely. At home Strange found that the excitement in doing any thing at all, both in public and in private, was very much to see how Arabella would look at him. Indeed throughout his life the attention of other people had been his chiefest interest, and he was faintly amazed to discover that somebody had been looking at him and that he had not noticed it. He supposed that some excuse might be made for him by the very significant distraction of the war. The focus of Grant's attention on him now was intoxicating. 

“I think it is,” said Strange. “Am I right?”

“Merlin— ” said Grant, and he looked rather confused, as if he did not think any of this was very relevant and certainly had not expected to be questioned upon it.

“Is this something you want?”

After a pause, Grant nodded. The movement was jerky and short, and he swallowed, and did not speak. It was not like Grant to be taciturn. Although of course this was quite unlike any conversation they had had before, and presumably this was not something that Grant would usually have the necessity or inclination to talk about.

“I see,” said Strange. He spoke quite calmly, although he felt as though every inch of his skin was screaming with the desire to be touched. But he did not move, and said, “Tell me what it is you would like.”

This was very like a game Arabella often played, in which she would not attend to him until he told her to her satisfaction how much he adored her, or how often he thought of her, or what exactly he wished for most. But this did not feel like a game in the slightest. Indeed Strange could not remember recently being more serious about any thing. The importance of being wanted permeated him to his very bones.

“I do not know what to say,” said Grant.

Under other circumstances this would not have been good enough; certainly it would not have passed muster for Arabella; but the way in which Grant said it was so ragged with want that it made Strange's prick jump under his shirt. He pressed the heel of his hand against it, and the way Grant looked at that was rather more than he could bear. Grant's eyes when he flicked them up again to Strange's face were wide and imploring.

“Get your uniform off,” Strange said, though he did not know exactly how he managed it. The words felt thick and heavy in his mouth. 

Grant drew in a breath and then complied. He stripped with an efficiency that should not have been at all surprizing, and in moments was down to his shirt. Strange wanted very much to put his hand against his side, to feel the heat of his body through the linen, and so he did. Grant looked up at him instantly, and they were very close together now, even though their only point of physical contact was Strange's hand, and that through the material. It was as if something crackled between them in all the small spaces that still separated their bodies.

Strange saw then that Grant wanted to kiss him, would kiss him, only he did not know whether it would be permissible. The sight of it, of the way Grant looked at his mouth, made Strange feel almost lightheaded. He rested his other hand gently against Grant's cheek, and it did not shake very much at all. “Go on,” he said. 

Grant kissed him with a fervour that Strange had frankly not suspected him of possessing. All other considerations seemed to disappear. Grant pushed his tongue into his mouth, one hand into his hair, and the other up and under his shirt to press against his back, and then his backside. The need of it was extraordinary. It made Strange feel quite wild and unconnected to any thing other than how much he desired exactly this. When he pushed his hand against the material of Grant's drawers he could feel how hard he was, and Grant made a choked-off noise in response. He jerked his hips forward against him, and then did it again, as Strange shaped his hand around him, feeling the small damp place where his prick had begun to leak.

“Have you thought of this before?” Strange asked.

Grant's breaths were coming shallow and fast; he was shaking his head a little, but not, Strange thought, in answer to the question. When Strange opened his drawers and pushed his hand inside he groaned outright, his prick tight and hot against Strange's fingers.

“Have you imagined that we might do this?”

Perhaps some of the urgency he felt came across in the question, in the breathlessness of it against Grant's ear. As Strange gripped the base of his prick Grant said, “Yes— yes— ” and then pressed his lips against the side of Strange's jaw, his breath very hot there as Strange began to stroke him.

The drawers very soon became an impediment and Strange left off for long enough for Grant to remove them. While he did so Strange trailed his hand lightly along his own prick, mostly hard too by now. He let out a small, unintended noise at his own touch, and rather a louder one when Grant wrapped a hand around his prick and began to work it. The idea that Grant had pictured this, had thought about this, perhaps when they had been talking together, perhaps when Strange had rested his hand against his shoulder, Grant had imagined— _God_. He groaned, and Grant's hand stuttered on him.

“We should— ” Strange said, and it came out as a gasp. He swallowed air and tried again. “Get on the bed.”

Grant did as he was bid, sat down on the bed and let Strange push him backwards, let Strange kneel over him, straddle him, so that when he ground his hips down their pricks were pressed against each other. The first time he did it the sensation was deliciously, shockingly pleasant. “Again,” Grant said, rough, desperate. “Again.” Strange did it again and again, Grant moving under him, until they were really only rutting against each other, hard and needing, Grant flushed all over with arousal and exertion and blood pounding in Strange's ears. 

Strange could very easily have finished like this— indeed he had to briefly stop himself from moving at the sudden image of spilling over Grant, across his prick and stomach; at how debauched Grant would look, red-faced and open-mouthed and splashed with his emission. But he did not wish for this to be over so soon, and so with great willpower Strange lifted himself upwards and knelt back on his haunches. Grant made a noise of protest, but when Strange took hold of his prick again he said “Oh, Christ,” and began to thrust upwards into his hand.

Grant did not look as if he would last very much longer. He was breathing loudly through his mouth and he had closed his eyes as Strange began to bring him off. The sight of him writhing against the bed was something to behold, but Strange needed very much for Grant to look at him again.

“Grant,” he said, and it came out low and hoarse. Grant's eyes opened, looking up at him from under his sweat-damp hair. “Is this what you thought of?” Grant choked in a breath and then nodded. “Like this?”

Grant finished very abruptly and with a strangled noise from somewhere in his throat, spilling over Strange's fist and across his own shirt, which had not rucked quite far enough up his abdomen to escape being soiled. 

Strange watched as Grant lay still for a short time, limp and sated, his breathing slowing to a steadier pace. Then he propt himself up on his elbows to see Strange better, who was still kneeling over him, his prick still jutting out below his shirt, hard and waiting. Grant reached forward and gave it a slippery tug, and smiled faintly when Strange shivered at the sensation. It was so familiar a smile that Strange was rather taken aback by it, and wondered what he would do the next time he saw it in entirely innocent circumstances.

“Let me up,” Grant said.

Strange moved off, and Grant knelt up by him on the bed. Instead of taking hold of him again Grant leant forward and kissed him, although now he was spent, he kissed with a great deal more patience and care. This tenderness did just as much in its own way to fuel the fire in Strange's belly as Grant's need had done beforehand. The more gentle Grant was to him, the more frantic he felt, and before long he made Grant stop and said, “Please, God, would you— ” 

“What?” said Grant. “What would you have?”

It seemed that Grant would offer any thing. The thought of this was almost too much to consider, but after a moment Strange said, “I would have your mouth on me.”

This answer seemed agreeable to Grant. He leant in to kiss Strange once more, this time neither desperately nor carefully but in a calculatedly lewd fashion. He held Strange's head still in both his hands and stroked at Strange's tongue with his own, the motion firm and deliberate, so that Strange could think of nothing but the imagined sensation of that tongue on his prick. He was forced to grip the base of his erection until Grant was quite done, and pulled back to look at him.

“That is not what I meant,” Strange said, rather breathlessly.

Grant looked slightly irritated. “Yes, I know,” he said.

Strange moved back a little, and instead of kneeling, sat with his legs apart. Grant bent between them, and for a shuddering moment Strange could feel the warmth of him breathing against his prick, before he wrapped his hand around it and took the head into his mouth. The feeling was quite overwhelming. _God_ , it had been such a long time, such an incredibly long time, and as often as he had thought about it, Strange had not really been capable of adequately preserving the memory of this sensation, the indescribable satisfaction of wet heat— _God almighty_. When Grant slid his mouth further down, his lips meeting the fist he had made around the base of Strange’s prick, Strange found himself mumbling some nonsense about how very obliging Grant was being and how very indecent he looked while doing so, all of which was quite true, but seemed to be wrung out of him in an unfiltered manner and he could not later have recalled exactly the terms in which he expressed himself.

Like every thing Grant applied himself to, he went about this duty most capably and in a businesslike way, sucking wetly around Strange's prick and rubbing his tongue against the underside of it. When Strange pushed a hand into his hair, Grant grunted in some kind of assent and only began to move faster. His proficiency made Strange wonder what Grant did with other soldiers, and which of them, and how often; whether this act was something he particularly enjoyed or took particular pride in; and, indeed, whether this too was something Grant had imagined between them before.

Strange closed his eyes at the thought, and, as always in the height of his pleasure, Arabella was there. He was by now too close to his climax to have any room for worry, and was only pleased to see her. He thought of Grant curled in on himself on his bedroll somewhere in the mountains, imagining Strange's hand on him and rubbing off at the idea of it; he thought of Arabella laughing down at him, her hair falling around her face and her breasts high and smooth, out of his reach, making him beg her for his release; and at last he finished, spurting hot into Grant's mouth. Grant swallowed around him, and when Strange uncurled his fingers from where they dug into his hair, he slid off his prick with an obscene sound, his mouth red and wet, lips swollen.

Strange did not know what he ought to say. He felt as though he had completed some exhausting piece of magic or a very long march, and was somewhat relieved that it was over. He did not think his body could have borne the strain any longer. He continued to look down at Grant, who was swallowing, breathing through his nose, and presumably waiting for Strange to give him a cue as to what to do next.

“Well,” said Strange, at last. “That was quite something.”

“Wasn't it?” agreed Grant. He might have been talking about an encounter with the French or a particularly good dinner. 

Grant pulled himself up to his knees. They were both still wearing their shirts, and Grant's especially was soiled and damp with sweat. He used the tails of it to clean his belly.

“I have a spare shirt,” Strange told him. “Borrow it.”

Grant shook his head. “I am staying here too. My room is only around the corner.” He cleared his throat. “But thank you.”

Strange watched with some interest as Grant dressed himself. Having been rather preoccupied at the time that Grant had taken his clothing off, he was intrigued to see the way the different elements of his uniform fit together into a whole, and by the ingrained, methodical care that Grant took over the process, despite the fact he would be undressing again in his own room in minutes. At the end of it he looked very well, apart from the unusual colour high in his cheeks, and a slight disarray to his hair that he could not quite tame. He might only have been exuberant from drinking.

By now enough of the initial euphoria had subsided that Strange had begun to feel the onset of an inevitable depression, seeming to chase the cooling sweat on his skin, spreading across his body at the same rate. He was not a man to feel any thing in the way of sexual shame, but, as he had always known, he was incapable of doing any thing like this without incurring an incredible guilt at his betrayal of Arabella. It had never been a case of imagining that this could be avoided: only a case of whether what he had done had been worth it.

“Right, then,” said Grant, when it seemed he had had enough of Strange looking at him in a rather inscrutable manner. “Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be going now.”

Strange nodded mechanically. But just as Grant began to turn towards the door he said, “Grant,” and watched him wheel sharply around. Wellington himself could not have provoked as immediate a reaction. Strange swallowed. “Come again, won't you?”

**Author's Note:**

> First posted to [jsmn_kinkmeme](https://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1273.html?thread=891385#cmt891385) in September 2015, for the prompt:
> 
> _I want these two men, two men in the the thick of the war, two men who have been in the Peninsula for a couple of years, starved of physical attention, desperate for some sort of release of their sexual desires, and so they turn to each other because why the hell not...they're two men... they know what the other wants and what the other NEEDS._
> 
> If you liked this story, you can also reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/169196805667/daedaluss-rose-equestrianstatue-jonathan)!


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